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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865776">darling, you should know by now (that you're my only muse)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink'>smudgesofink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, and confesses through a cheesy love song, in which Jaskier is a sap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:15:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>Jaskier’s head snaps up and he sees Geralt’s expectant stare at him.</p><p>“Play something,” Geralt requests, and it almost makes Jaskier’s brain collapse on itself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Best Geralt</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>darling, you should know by now (that you're my only muse)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first attempt to write a Witcher fanfic. Please be gentle. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier lives his life through music.</p><p>It’s not just pretentious shit–he truly, utterly cannot survive a day without breaking into song. He whistles as he walks, hums a mindless tune under his breath as he breaks bread during breakfast, spreads a few spattering smiles across the village children’s faces as he passes by them with a playful made-up song about their mothers’ nagging and their fathers’ beer stench. </p><p>(In bed with his many lovers, he dedicates them metered poetry sung in lilting tones–a few words and cliches borrowed here and there, but if it makes them blush oh so prettily like that, surely a little bit of intellectual theft is worth it?)</p><p>Jaskier is a man of many words. So many, many words. They aren’t always clever or witty or in perfect rhyme, but Jaskier can bet his body’s worth in coin that he can come up with words and a tune about almost <em>anything. </em>Which, in hindsight, doesn’t always make for the best of songs. <strike>His singing about abortion in Posada is proof enough.</strike></p><p>So when he’s given a muse worthy of a lyric or two, Jaskier milks them for all they’re worth. And by the gods, is Geralt of Rivia ever the perfect muse for a bard like him. Smelling of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. <strike>And onion and dirt and many unspeakable things. The man needs a bath.</strike></p><p>Jaskier writes and sings many a song about their adventures, performing in inns and taverns and he watches with glee as the townsfolk lap it up like the desperately bored people that they are. Jaskier retells the slaying of the cockatrice and Geralt’s prowess, regales the tale of the great wyvern infestation and how the mighty Witcher had defeated them all in a single strike. </p><p>The people demand yet one more performance of <em>Toss a Coin to your Witcher </em>and from the farthest table at the corner, Geralt rolls his eyes and takes a sullen mouthful of ale. Jaskier grins like the little shit he knows he is, and sings it most wonderfully.</p><p>He’s been given a good thing, Jaskier knows. Not every bard–or person, for that matter–can claim that they’ve traveled the Continent with a Witcher, much less be given (unspoken, probably unwilling) permission to sing about them.</p><p>But the thing is, Jaskier is also, and have always been, a man of stupidity.</p><p>So he sees this godawful good thing in the form of Geralt of Rivia–Witcher, travel companion, and dare he say it, <em>friend–</em>and all Jaskier wants is to have more.</p><p>He still performs his songs for coin, yes.</p><p>But Jaskier also finds himself writing songs that are only for Geralt. He sings silly tunes to fill the silence of their day as they walk the forest path–sings of noblewomen and their dirty laundry, sings of noblemen and their dirty secrets and sings louder at Geralt’s snorts and huffs of laughter.</p><p>He sings them at camp when night falls and the crackle of the fire is all that can be heard–sings soft melodies about the chill and the thaw of spring. Sings of weary travelers and the call of home. Geralt cleans his swords as Jaskier plays, always a silent audience of one. He never comments on the songs, never applauds, but he sleeps soundly afterwards without a fuss and Jaskier would like to think his voice has something to do with it. </p><p>Once though, Jaskier performs a song dedicated to Roach and witnesses an ever small smile quirking up the side of Geralt’s lips. Golden eyes meet Jaskier’s own across the campfire and the smile grows. (It’s like alcohol in his veins, that smile. By the gods, can Jaskier write masterpieces about that smile.)</p><p>Some songs, Jaskier writes for himself. For his hopeless, hapless string of sanity, he writes of warm bodies and strong hands that can hold him down, and sighs wistfully about teeth marks on collarbones and finger-shaped bruises on the give of his hips that will never be.</p><p>For his wretched, cowardly heart, Jaskier writes of white wolves and eyes of burning gold. Of winter white hair and how he longs to bury his unworthy fingers into it. Of low laughter and the way they spark heat into the pit of his belly. Of smiles so rare but so dashingly soft in their fondness that Jaskier cannot help but be enchanted by them.</p><p>“Who’s the woman?” Geralt asks gruffly one day, overhearing a song not meant for his ears. He only stares at the growing flush on Jaskier’s face. “I didn’t know there was a woman.”</p><p>“There–there isn’t a woman,” Jaskier says, and it’s a fucking mistake. It makes Geralt quirk an even more curious eyebrow at him. “There’s a–man.” Jaskier adds, and he wants to beat himself with his lute.</p><p>“A man,” Geralt repeats dubiously.</p><p>“Yes.” Jaskier winces, bracing himself for the inevitable judgment. “A man.”</p><p>But Geralt only nods, frowns, and says, “Hmm.” </p><p>The rest of the day’s journey is spent in relative silence–Geralt’s pensive, Jaskier’s full of fucking regret. They camp in the forest for the third night in a row when darkness overtakes the road. Jaskier is so busy fidgeting with nerves that he doesn’t notice the looks Geralt sends him–not until Geralt finishes with the fire and clears his throat.</p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>Jaskier’s head snaps up and he sees Geralt’s expectant stare at him.</p><p>“Play something,” Geralt requests, and it almost makes Jaskier’s brain collapse on itself. Geralt <em>never </em>requests for him to play. But perhaps this is the Witcher’s way of smoothing the awkwardness that has settled between them, or at least in Jaskier’s part. Perhaps it’s Geralt’s odd, long-winded way of saying <em>everything’s still the same between us.</em></p><p>And that’s a good thing, isn’t it? That they’re still friends? That Geralt isn’t disgusted by the revelation that Jaskier’s been writing lovesick songs about a man? Jaskier didn’t want to think that Geralt would be, but he could’ve been and that would’ve truly broken his heart–</p><p>“Jaskier, will you play or not?”</p><p>–and now Geralt is impatient.</p><p>Jaskier shakes himself out of his stupor and reaches for his lute with shaky hands. He should play something familiar, he tells himself. Something with an easy tune to lighten up this tension. Maybe that song about Roach. Something safe. </p><p>But Jaskier is a man of desperately many words and so much stupidity. He gets given a good thing and he asks for more of it. So instead, Jaskier plucks the first soft notes to a song he has never sung outside of himself before, and lets the quiver of his voice bury itself in his throat as he sings–</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps I’m just a bard<br/>With silly words and love songs<br/>Perhaps this is a start<br/>For two people who belong</em>
</p><p>Jaskier makes himself meet Geralt’s eyes across the fire. They are beautiful even in their unnatural color, and even more so now that they’re transfixed on him. </p><p>
  <em>And perhaps I’m just a man<br/>Who fell in love with you<br/>And maybe I’m short of a plan<br/>As to what I need to do</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Cause all my games and bravado<br/>are nothing more than a ruse<br/>Darling, you should know by now<br/>that you’re my only muse</em>
</p><p>Geralt falls eerily still at the lyrics, and Jaskier smiles in resigned defeat. </p><p>
  <em>Perhaps I’m who I am<br/>And I can give nothing more<br/>But perhaps you’ll give a damn<br/>More than you did before</em>
</p><p><em>‘Cause all my games and bravado<br/>are nothing more than a ruse<br/>Darling, you should know by now<br/>that you’re my only muse</em> </p><p>He finishes it with a weak breath and drowns himself in the silence that follows it. It is a confession more than it is or will ever be a song. It is all of Jaskier’s words and none of the wit, and Jaskier knows. Jaskier knows he fucked up.</p><p>He can’t stop his flinch when Geralt stands up from his seat and marches across to reach him. “Geralt,” he begins, dreading the clench of Geralt’s knuckles but surely his friend won’t beat him up for confessing? “Geralt, I know–”</p><p>“Jaskier.” Geralt crouches down in front of him so that Jaskier can see the intensity of his eyes up close and personal because Geralt apparently thinks it isn’t intimidating enough from afar. “What was that song?”</p><p>“A mistake,” Jaskier chokes, because it is. It’s a fucking mistake and now Geralt will punch him in the face and break his nose and he’ll lose the only good thing he’s had in his life so far. Geralt, that is, not his nose. “It was a stupid song, I know, but I just–”</p><p>“You just what?”</p><p>“–can’t stop asking for more of a good thing,” Jaskier breathes out and looks down. Geralt is so close. He’s so close that Jaskier can feel the warmth of his controlled exhale and the part of his lips. Can count the stubble on his jaw, if Jaskier is given more time to stare. “I want,” <em>you</em> “more.”</p><p>“Maybe next time you should ask directly,” Geralt grounds out in a rough tone that oddly enough, does not suggest a beating. Jaskier blinks. “Instead of through a fucking song.”</p><p>“I–”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>That’s all the warning he gets before Geralt kisses him.</p><p>And by the gods, is Geralt of Rivia ever the best thing that’s happened to Jaskier.</p>
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